


I Am Not Lost

by aidennestorm



Series: Amidst All This Darkness [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feelings, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Loss of Virginity, Mage Warden (Dragon Age), Not Actually Unrequited Love, Past Morrigan/Female Warden, Past Zevran/Female Warden, Post-Dragon Age: Origins, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25754245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/pseuds/aidennestorm
Summary: The brothers were inseparable from the moment of their conception, known for their great love for each other. That is why we often speak of Falon'Din in one breath and Dirthamen the next, for they cannot bear to be apart, not even in our tales.The Fifth Blight is over and Warden-Commander Surana believes that simplynot being deadis the only happiness she deserves. After some long-awaited revelations, Alistair shows her the promise of a future worth truly living for.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Surana (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Series: Amidst All This Darkness [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176707
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	I Am Not Lost

You notice Alistair watching you. 

It’s impossible to miss, after all. You’re a Grey Warden, a mage, with _years_ of being attuned to the unseen both in and outside the Fade. But Alistair is a Grey Warden too, and an almost-Templar besides, and for all his sarcasm and bluster he can be terrifyingly competent when he wants to be—

Which means he _wants_ you to notice him watching you. 

Curious. 

After three straight days of the weight of his brown eyes on your back every moment you’re turned around, and now on the top of your head as you read a letter over the evening meal, you abruptly abandon the parchment to the table and demand, “Out with it.”

A guilty flush creeps onto his cheeks, his expression uncharacteristically subdued and perhaps even… nervous? But it’s not the soul-deep, sickly worry as he paced outside the Royal Palace before the Landsmeet, or the way his body drew up short, stunned like an invisible blow, the moment he first laid eyes on the Archdemon. Good.

Your eyebrows rise, and he sighs. 

“Are you _actually_ okay?” he finally asks; it’s not the question you’re expecting, and you blink at him in confusion. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up to see you haunting the halls like a spurned lover, but you just keep… not doing that.”

The retort is right there on your lips, a sardonic, _do you want me to?,_ or _I thought you’d be happy to see Morrigan leave?,_ but while the teasing wouldn’t be amiss in other circumstances, Alistair looks genuinely concerned.

“I keep myself busy,” you confess. There’s plenty of messes to clean and problems to solve, with far too few Wardens to help, compounded by your new promotion to Warden-Commander. This sort of broad-reaching responsibility—more menacing than any Blight by far—is foreign, complicated, and some days it’s so _frustrating_ it’s all you can do to keep your wits about you.

But that’s not a full answer. The words trip over your tongue yet you _try,_ because Alistair’s face softens to a gentle, cautious empathy. You’ve never been able to resist anything he’s ever asked when he looks like _that_.

“I always knew it would be fleeting. Of course I’ll cherish our time together, but… when it was what she wanted, how could I not let her go?”

“Just like you let Zevran go?”

The contours of his expression don’t change; there’s no mockery or malice. It’s what allows you to clarify, “Zevran is dear to me. A good friend that yes, I also shared a bed with. But we always understood it was no more than that.”

“How can you do it?” Alistair wonders aloud. “Love and—lose, so freely?”

 _It wasn’t that kind of love,_ you want to say, the most honest thing you possibly ever _could_ say to him. _They were affection and comfort when it wasn’t you, because it’s always been you—_

“Like being a Grey Warden, I suppose.” Your voice is hushed, so quiet it’s like a prayer to the Creators themselves: _don’t let him see my soul._ “Sacrifice, in death or in life. Understanding how to give people what they need, no matter if it hurts. Zevran needed to find a life of his own, outside the Crows or even me. Morrigan needed…”

You stumble briefly over the thought. Not the bittersweet memory of one single night of holding her, kissing her, fucking her, for the first and last and only time, but the realization that Alistair _doesn’t know._ He knows about _a_ ritual keeping both of you alive after Riordan fell, but no more. He knows only that Morrigan was _there,_ and you leaned toward her like a flower in the sun, before she disappeared behind a dark cloud of her own design.

“... what Morrigan needs,” you shrug. Allowing Alistair’s expectations of her to fill the lingering words you don’t say. “If she hadn’t offered to help we would still be separated, because I would have—”

 _“Stop,”_ Alistair demands, a spasm crossing his handsome face. “Let me finish that sentence for you. You would have left _me._ Even knowing how I felt— _feel—_ about losing Duncan.” He cuts himself off, stares fiercely down at his plate. “You already tried. _You_ were the one who slayed the Archdemon on nothing more than faith in a witch who tolerated you and hated me.”

Your fallen heart pounds beneath the truth that is so close yet still so far away. “I would do _anything_ to keep you safe, Alistair.”

He’s silent for a moment. Then mumbles, gruff and reluctant—

“I suppose I should thank her, if we ever see her again.”

* * *

“You _what?_ ”

You massage your temples, longing for the cool ease of Wynne’s healing. There are elfroot potions in your chambers to offset the skills you sorely lack, but Alistair is blocking the door, shoulders squared and filling the makeshift office with the force of his anger. _Fool,_ you call yourself; it echoes in Morrigan’s voice. _Fool, to confess, to think he would understand._

“It was our best option. I don’t regret it.”

“‘Regret it’? You created some—some bastard magic spawn, and then _abandoned—”_

 _“She_ left.” You’re on your feet before you realize it, hands clenched into fists at your sides, the tips of your fingers crackling. Alistair’s eyes, pained and hurt and perhaps even _betrayed,_ widen in shock.

You expect him to call down a smite, call you selfish, careless, cruel. You _don’t_ expect him to freeze in place and cock his head in that ridiculously adorable way that shows that he’s _listening,_ and the shame and guilt rise to your face as you choke back your magic, choke on your words. “That was her deal, for saving our lives. Her and the child’s freedom. I _trust_ Morrigan, as much as you might not like to hear that, and I am _not_ Maric!”

Alistair deflates. “I know.”

His blood-flecked armor clanks, loud in the sudden silence, as he crosses the room and stands at your shoulder. He pulls off one of his gloves and rests his bare hand on your arm; the familiar warmth is soothing, even in the midst of your own anger. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions, even at the nightmarish thought of Morrigan running around with a magic maybe-demon baby.”

“I’m sorry too. I should never have threatened you, even though I wouldn’t actually...”

You look away, closing your eyes to fight the fresh wave of worn and haggard and hollow that settles around you. _You break what you love,_ you hear, a cold whisper on the nape of your neck. _When will he come to his senses and tire of you?_

“It doesn’t bring me much comfort, either,” you add, after taking a moment to shove the thought away. “I swear on the Creators, Alistair—if she had decided to stay, I would be there.” 

“Forgiven,” Alistair says immediately. There’s a smile in his voice you can picture in your mind: rueful, reassuring. He squeezes your arm. “And I have no doubt about that, truly. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever known.”

 _No,_ you think, throat tight with longing. _You are._

_* * *_

The following day is… eventful.

Alistair acts strangely. Forgetting conversations, whether they occur in debriefings or across a shared meal. Misplacing notes, quills, sheets of parchment. Staring out windows with an expression so clouded and thoughtful and _distant_ that your mind and stomach churn with uncertainty.

But after dusk, while you’re trying to determine how to broach the topic without sounding accusatory or needy, he barges into your chambers. You’re in the process of pulling off your robe when you hear the creak of the door opening and closing—then his voice, muffled through layers of fabric, asking without preamble, “Were you _flirting_ with me?”

To shove your robe back on, though it would provide an illusion of protection, is as good as an admission of discomfort _._ Your mind races in time with your heart; by the time you finagle your way out of the thing your expression is carefully neutral, no flush lighting your cheeks. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

He runs a hand roughly through his hair. His tone is equally agitated when he clarifies, “In camp. ‘My friend Surana, have you ever licked a lamppost in winter?’ ‘Why, actually, Alistair, I’ve licked my _share_ of lampposts.’”

He seems to be looking _through_ you, not at you, and you don’t know whether or not you should feel grateful or chagrined that he doesn’t seem to notice that you’re standing before him only in smalls and the thin slip of a nightshirt. But stronger than that is the surprise that Alistair would remember the conversation; though it was only months ago, it feels like an age.

 _You_ remember it, though.

“I was,” you say slowly, carefully. “Though I stopped after that. You made it clear that you didn’t feel the same.”

Yet again you lie and you lie and you _lie,_ because while it’s _a_ truth it’s not the _entire_ truth. You don’t mention that you might have stopped flirting, but the feelings remain. You don’t mention that you’re drawn to him, strong and instinctual as the most primal magic coursing through your veins.

You don’t mention that you love him.

He blinks at you for a moment, stunned, before something stirs deep in his eyes. A dawning, undeniable realization, if the way he suddenly takes a step back is any indication. _“Oh.”_

Your stomach bottoms out.

“And that’s when you…” His words stumble into nothingness and he waves a hand vaguely. “Anyway, thanks!” he calls over his shoulder, scurrying through the door as quickly as he arrived.

 _It doesn’t have to mean anything,_ you think desperately. _Maybe he just doesn’t want that kind of relationship—_

 _Maybe he just doesn’t want_ you _,_ Despair hisses. _Marked_ _apostate, knife-eared orphan with no home or history, good only for killing and creating other broken things. What can_ you _offer the man who could have been King?_

“Leave me _alone,_ demon.”

Your voice is no more than a gasp in an empty room, and when you sink numbly to the bed, you sit paralyzed for a very long time.

* * *  
  
For the next few days, Alistair is utterly absent. It takes every scrap of discipline you’ve ever learned to _stay put,_ to give him space. You know he’ll return eventually—he’s too devoted to the Wardens to run far, even if you’ve lost him for any friendship of your own.

Delegating tasks, sorting aside correspondence that must wait for his input; it’s easier than you expect. What’s _not_ easy is the menacing expanse of the Keep, this time the longest you’ve spent living in any kind of tower since the Circle. You take to spending the remainder of your restless days and the entirety of your sleepless nights in the library, reading aloud to cavernous silence.

 _“‘You_ _are lost, and soon you will fade,’ the raven named Fear said to Dirthamen,”_ you murmur, the setting sun streaming light across worn pages, your throat closed from what must be the dusty old tomes. You vaguely remember this tale from a distant childhood memory: sitting in the lap of an older elven apprentice while she balanced the book on your knees and let you turn the pages. _“‘Your brother has abandoned you. He no longer loves you,’ said the other—”_

A small cough sounds somewhere behind you. You snap the book shut from prying eyes and set it on a nearby table—you’re not sure you want to recall anymore how _The Story of Falon'Din and Dirthamen_ ends—and spring from your chair, and—

 _“Alistair,”_ you breathe. You swallow heavily, strengthen your voice, add a smile that ends up too honest and relieved. “Welcome back.”

He looks _good._ Rested and calm without his armor, casual in the blues and blacks and grays of the Wardens. His posture is open as he leans against the doorframe, his tone genuinely light—perhaps even teasing—when he asks, “That’s it? No ‘where have you been, Alistair’, or ‘how could you take off without telling me, Alistair’, or ‘this is unacceptable and I’ll consign you to the dungeons, Alistair’?”

You shake your head. “I knew you would return to the Wardens, but I wasn’t going to force when. You’ve well earned some time alone.”

The words have the opposite effect you intend; Alistair abruptly straightens, nervous energy thrumming through his strong frame. “You’re an _idiot,”_ he says, sudden and vehement. “You didn’t think I’d come back to you. You think all you’re good for is to be left.”

It stings, deep and piercing, but you force yourself to shrug as if it doesn’t hurt. As if that truth doesn’t _matter._ “I’m a Warden,” you remind him. “A Circle mage. An _elf._ I learned fast what I’m good for.”

 _Broken, damaged,_ nothing—

“Not with _me,”_ Alistair argues fiercely, crossing the room with the same powerful grace he displays on the battlefield, and then—

And then he _kisses_ you. Calloused hands cupping your face, chapped lips pressed to your own.

You startle out of the Despair creeping ever closer in your thoughts but stand frozen, powerless beneath a crash of confusion and dizziness. You stare at Alistair as he turns his face away and laughs, self-deprecating, “I’m doing everything all wrong, aren’t I? _Maker,_ I’m sorry, I planned this to be better.”

You blink at him; your mouth carries an echo of his touch, but you don’t _understand._

“Surana,” he says, gentle, clear worry settling into his eyes when he looks back at you. “I _want_ you, if you’re still willing.”

“This can’t be real,” you whisper. “This doesn’t happen to me.”

“It _is_ real.” Alistair’s voice is sure, his hands firm as he draws you close enough to fit together. It’s as perfect as you’ve imagined. Your breath catches tight and painful in your chest, so intense you barely hear him add, “It _is_ happening. If you want this too, I mean—”

You surge forward, meeting him with months of pent-up enthusiasm and desire. He captures the moan from your lips, threads a hand into your loosely braided hair, holds you like your shield against the world. His tongue is slick and curious against your own; you pull away long enough to gasp, “Bed. _Please.”_

Alistair groans. “I could die a happy man just hearing you say that.” He untangles himself from your arms and takes your hand, smirking. “Your desire is my command.”

* * *  
  
He drags you to his chambers and you fall into bed together. _Literally_ fall, as you start kissing too desperately for any kind of gracefulness. His mouth is a little clumsy but insistent, worrying at your lower lip until it tingles, leaving a string of kisses across your jaw, tracing the point of your ear with the tip of his tongue. You cling to him, his stubble rasping against your cheek as you bury your face in the crook of his neck and mark him, teeth worrying a bruise into his throat. 

_“Oh,”_ Alistair moans. “That’s…”

He squirms beneath your pinning weight; you shift until your thigh wedges his legs apart, pressing flush against his hardening cock. He arches his back, grinds against you, wandering hands clutching at your robe. “I—I’ve never done this before, but I know enough that this should come _off.”_

You laugh, bright and delighted, as you sit up and straddle his thigh. You tug the garment over your head and toss it to the floor along with your shirt shortly after, and then—

“Don’t stop now.” Alistair’s gaze is dark, hungry. “After I walked in on you changing, I lost track of how many times I thought about what you would look like beneath all these layers.”

“Already?” you tease, but there’s an uncertainty there, a careful question.

He hears it, Creators praise him, because he _always_ does, because he has always been attuned to the deepest fears of your heart as well as his own. He smiles a little wryly; his hand is grounding and warm where it rests on your waist, thumb rubbing soothing patterns against your skin. “It took me longer to realize because… well, you know, Chantry and all that…”

You nod; you _do_ know the Chantry, only too well. 

“But it’s _you,”_ he whispers. “Who you’ve always been, and who you’ll ever be. I’ll admit I was… jealous of Zevran and Morrigan.” His cheeks flame with embarrassment. “But I didn’t _know_ that’s what it was at the time, I just knew I wanted your attention. I didn’t think you could possibly have any sort of—feelings for me. Remember, Surana? I’m _nobody,_ just a royal bastard who got lucky.”

“You’re _everything.”_ In an abrupt burst of maneuvering movement, your smalls join the rest of your discarded attire. Alistair’s eyes rove greedily across your bare skin, landing on scars from henlock blades, the flash-burns of magic. Down the column of your flat, slender torso, to where you straddle his strong thigh. “Listen to me, Alistair. _I would not be here without you.”_

“You would. Without a doubt.”

You smile. Wobbly, and terrified, yet still— _still—_ taking the leap. “I don’t want to be.”

A noise tears from Alistair’s throat—some approximation of a growl, perhaps, more like a kitten than a mabari, but it still sends a shiver down your spine. It’s something to investigate another time, though, because he tugs you in for another kiss, more desperate than the last.

“I am a _lucky_ man,” he repeats, voice hushed and reverent, when you finally pull away to catch your breath. “How did I ever land such a strong, determined, kind, _beautiful_ woman?”

Your whole body trembles as he stares at you not like you’re something to be feared or pitied—

But like maybe, _possibly,_ he loves you too.

“Can I—”

 _“Yes,”_ he groans. His eyes are so guileless, and painfully, openly earnest. “Anything. _Everything._ I trust you.”

Your smile blooms again as you make quick work of his tunic, tearing it off with a speed that makes him chuckle. Your hands skim across the tan planes of his scarred body, tight muscles under surprisingly soft skin, and you simply _look._

“You like this,” you say, soft, when his cock stirs further beneath you.

Alistair shudders, caught out and gruff as he confesses, “I always have. It was one of the reasons why I couldn’t marry Anora. She… would never look at me the way you do.”

“And here I thought you never noticed.”

You nimbly strip the rest of his clothes off; the way he shifts beneath your weight to help is a delicious friction on sensitive skin. You lean in, brushing a kiss over the purpling bruise on his neck.

“I _did,”_ he says breathlessly. “I just didn’t know what it meant.”

Your lips trail down his chest, tongue curling around a pebbled nipple—further, over his stomach and the skin hidden beneath a nest of curls, and finally—

His cock is hard, flushed, _gorgeous._

“You—you remember this is my first time, right?” he yelps, even as he arches into the press of your lips against his shaft. “I can’t promise a— _Maker—_ a complete performance if you keep…”

He doesn’t see your grin, but it still shines in your voice. “It appears that we’ve been assigned no duties tomorrow. Whatever shall we do with our time?”

“You’re not just beautiful, you’re _wicked,”_ he groans.

You stop to suck on his stones, teasing him; he gives a strangled gasp as his hands fly off the sheets and jerk to an uncertain halt over your shoulders. 

It’s sweet, adorable, utterly _Alistair_ to be so careful, even while taking pleasure already freely given. You deliberately look up at him through your lashes and guide his hands to cradle your head. “You won’t hurt me.”

_“Never.”_

The promise thickens your throat, brings relieved, grateful tears to your eyes. He slides his hands to cup your face, rubbing thumbs across your cheekbones to brush the tears away. What was supposed to be erotic is now intense, emotional, and the truth is _right there_ , heavy in your mouth and begging to be said— 

“I love you,” he blurts. He swallows nervously, blushing again, but his gaze is so soft it steals your breath away. “We’re _alive,_ Surana. Both of us. Some days I didn’t think we’d make it, but—”

“—but we did, and we’re _together.”_

 _“Yeah,”_ he breathes, grinning.

You return the gesture and get lost by simply staring into his beautiful eyes, until you add with a belated murmur, “I love you too, by the way.”

“‘By the way,’ she says, like I haven’t just heard the best news in my _entire life.”_

You surge forward and take the tip of his cock into your mouth; he _whimpers,_ fingers digging into your cheeks before he remembers himself and settles his hands on the back of your head instead. The world is in your steadying grasp on his thighs, love in the slide of your lips around him with his precome delightfully bitter on your tongue. 

His movements are cautious at first, but more reckless and wild with every thick, wonderful inch you take. The push-pull of his bucking hips driving himself further down your throat and his hands heavy on your head alights your own body with arousal as bright and searing as the lightning you command. He _uses_ you enthusiastically, and you _take_ him with equal fervor. 

_“Surana,”_ he begs, “I—oh, _please,_ I need—Maker, _yes—”_ His eyes blow wide, body stuttering, and you swallow him eagerly as he spills and shatters apart.

* * *  
  
It’s no surprise, but still endearing, the way he immediately tugs at your shoulders, adamantly pulling you close as you slide back up his body. He’s not even hesitant as he kisses you, tasting himself on your tongue. 

_“Wow._ I never knew it could feel like this,” he finally whispers against your lips.

“It never has for me,” you confess. One last honesty hidden to your heart until this moment, now freed into Alistair’s loving embrace. “Not before you.”

His arms tighten around you, warm and clinging and _safe._ “I love you,” he says again; you know with soul-deep certainty you’ll never tire of hearing it. “I don’t ever want to be without you, either, and you… you deserve _everything._ I want to give it to you, if you’ll let me.”

Under the shining of his storm-cloud eyes comes the thunderclap of memory: a crinkled page beneath small grasping fingers and a light voice, reading clear and sweet as song, “ _And Dirthamen stayed with him, for the twins cannot bear to be apart.”_

You smile at the touch of gentle, calloused fingers tracing your ear. “You went somewhere,” Alistair murmurs. “What are you thinking about?”

“You.”

He grins, pressing his forehead to yours—and you _feel_ it, then, something finally slotting into place. A little like Hope, and a lot like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> Codex entry for the referenced story, if you’re curious: https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Dirthamen:_Keeper_of_Secrets
> 
> And shoutout to the friend that listened to me ramble about Surana’s gender feels—both Surana and I thank you. ;)


End file.
